Man on the run - By Charles Williams Page 0,1

no sound except the drumming of rain on the roof. Well, what the hell did I expect to hear? If there were people inside they’d be asleep. I circled it warily. In front there was a road surfaced with crushed oyster shells, faintly luminous in the predawn gloom, and two or three anemic transplanted palms clashing in the storm. But there was no car. I stepped softly onto the front porch. There were two windows and a door. The door was locked.

I slipped over and felt the doors of the attached garage. They were secured with a hasp and padlock. But that still wasn’t proof there was no car inside. I slipped around in back again, sticking close to the wall to stay married to the dark bulk of the house. In addition to the door, there was a small window in the rear of the garage. It was latched on the inside.

I bumped into something. It was a bamboo pole, leaning against the roof. Using the butt of it, I knocked out one of the small panes of the window. Shards of glass tinkled, not too loudly, on the concrete floor inside. Reversing the pole, I shoved it full length in through the opening and swung it from side to side. It encountered nothing. I groped around inside for the latch, released it, and slid the window open. It took only a moment to wiggle through and fall on the floor inside. I could have cut myself on the glass under me, but I was too numb with exposure to tell or care.

It was growing lighter. After a while I could see the outline of a door going into the house. I stood up and tried it. It was locked. I looked around the garage for something with which to jimmy it open. It was going to turn colder, with this north wind blowing, and another twelve to twenty-four hours in wet clothing might be more exposure than I could stand. There could be blankets inside, or I might even be lucky enough to find dry clothes.

The only tool I could see was an old claw-hammer hanging from two nails on the rear wall beside the window. Maybe I could use it to beat in one of the panels of the door, but it would make enough noise to rouse everybody in this end of the county. Then I noticed it was hinged to swing outward. I pulled one of the nails on which the hammer had been hanging, straightened it, and drove the pins out of the hinges. It took only a minute to pry the door out and set it aside. I released the locking plunger on the inside knob, and rehung the door, driving the pins back in place.

It opened into the kitchen. In the growing light I could make out a small gas stove and refrigerator, then the counter and sink at the rear wall to the left. On the right there was a small dining area with a table and two chairs, and a heavily curtained window. I went through the connecting doorway, trailing water on the floor. It was a large living room. Curtains were drawn over the windows at front and rear, permitting very little light to seep through, but I could see the stone fireplace against the opposite wall and just to the left of it another doorway. I stepped across and peered in. It was the bedroom. The curtains here were of lighter material, and I could see fairly well. At the right there was a bed with a wine-colored corduroy spread, and a dresser and chest. An open doorway at the left led into the bathroom. This was all of it. The whole place was cold and damp.

Water was still oozing from the ruin of my clothing. I stepped inside the bathroom and stripped, throwing suit, shirt, tie, shoes, underwear, and socks into the tub in one soggy mass. I caught sight of my face in the mirror. One eye was swollen almost shut, and there was a big puffy area on my jaw. I felt the back of my head and winced. As far as I could tell, however, the skin wasn’t broken. My right hand was swollen and stiff. Rubbing myself harshly with a towel, I located a blanket in a linen closet in the bedroom, gathered it around me, and lay down on the bed. It was a long time before I began to feel warm.